


we might as well (say what's on our minds)

by blake0tyler



Series: set your world on fire [2]
Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Character Study, Dirty Talk, F/F, Praise Kink, but have very hot sex, they're also still really soft, with a strap on for example, writing this made me blush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 12:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blake0tyler/pseuds/blake0tyler
Summary: You like to be good at things.//a Christen Press character study[ aka praise kink fic ]





	we might as well (say what's on our minds)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: 
> 
> You asked for the praise kink fic, here it is. 
> 
> This is an extension—prequel? sequel? character study? all of the above?—of my “set your world on fire” fic. I would recommend you read that one first, but technically, you could read this separately, too. 
> 
> This fic fits more or less within the actual preath timeline. I changed some things around, though, for narrative purposes. So if you see things that are different from how you feel they happened in real life, that is why. After all, and I can’t stress this enough, this is still a work of fiction ;)
> 
> Gets a little angsty at some point (tw: panic attack), but after that it’s just hot hot hot—if I do say so myself. 
> 
> Title is from “Bonnie & Clyde” by Vance Joy, which has nothing to do with this story, but is a really nice song.

You like to be good at things.

:::

First day of second grade, and Miss Carmen is looking over your shoulder into your writing notebook. Your pencil shakes a little on the paper and you push the tip of your tongue between your teeth, trying to steady your hand as you copy the list of words down from the board.

B-O-A-T… S-K-Y… L-I-G-H-T…

Miss Carmen tracks the movement of your writing, then puts her hand on your shoulder. Her voice is kind and gentle when she says, “Good job, Christen. That looks beautiful.”

There’s a rush of warmth through your whole body.

You smile up at Miss Carmen, gap-teethed and all, feeling strangely proud when she squeezes your shoulder before walking over to Ryan’s desk.

You put your pencil back on paper, try to write the words even closer to the lines.

Even prettier.

Even better.

:::

On Saturdays, you get to help your Nana with the garden.

Channing and Tyler are always off doing other things; playing with the kids in the neighborhood, telling you that gardening is lame—but you like it. You like the feeling of the earth between your fingers, like the colors of the flowers, and how everything smells, the little bees that are always buzzing around. You like to watch your Nana put new flowers into the ground with so much care. As if it’s the most important job in the world.

You like doing important things.

“Grab that pot for me, please, honey? The one by the door.”

Nana’s hands are deep into the earth, her sun hat slipping down over her forehead. You’re already running, ignoring the scratches against your legs when you round the rose bush by the corner of the house a little too quickly.

You like running. You like to be fast. 

The pot is a little too heavy, but you tell yourself you’ve _got _this. You carry it all the way back and Nana smiles.

“What would I do without you?” she says, brushing her dirty fingers against her your forehead for a second. “My great helper.”

You don’t even care that your face gets dirty.

:::

The boys are all three years older than you, but you’re small and quick and you’re _good_ at soccer. You play with the girls, too, and while you think you love that more, this gives you a kind of rush that is unparalleled—to kick the ball away from their feet, to push yourself forward every chance you get, to score goals against kids who are already in middle school.

They pull on your shirt, your hair, they tell you soccer isn’t for girls—but you can see it in their eyes when you make your way onto the pitch; they look at you like there’s something intimidating about you, like they know that you are better than them.

And deep down, you can feel it.

You can feel that you _are_.

You’ve got people saying, “Watch. Watch the way she plays. That’s going to be something one day. Watch how good she is.”

It’s a little bit addictive.

::: 

A hundred shots on goal with each leg.

That’s what you do.

Every single day.

A hundred with your left. A hundred with your right. No matter how tired you are or how much rather you want to be hanging out with your friends. You put on your cleats and you try to get the ball where it needs to be—over and over again. 

Yes, you’re good at soccer, everyone says so.

But now that you’re good, you want to be _great_—and if this is what it takes to get there, you’ll do it. Two hundred shots on goal, before school, after school, doesn’t matter. As long as you get them all in.

It makes you stressed, though.

Sometimes—despite the high school championships, despite the fact that you’re winning almost everything, that you’re breaking _records_—you feel like you’re actually getting worse instead of better. The more shots you take, the more chances you have to mess it up—and it causes this aching cold tension in your body; something that makes your breathing short in a way that has nothing to do with endurance, that makes your hands feel clammy for no reason at all sometimes.

You hate how something that you love so much makes you so anxious, too.

You try to talk to yourself to make it better, saying _you got this_, saying _come on, Chris, show them how it’s done_, saying _you are good enough_—but it doesn’t always help.

No one understands how much you need this; how being good at things gives you control, makes you confident, lights you up in ways that nothing else can, really.

There’s just nothing like it.

The rush of the perfect goal.

All the praise.

:::

The first time, it does something _else _to you, you’re a freshman in college.

It’s a team night out—nothing too crazy, just a movie night with the girls and a little bit of drinking—and someone, maybe it’s Kelley (it’s probably Kelley), suggests playing spin the bottle.

You can feel your heart speed up just a little bit; it’s not like you never kiss people—you had your first kiss when you were fifteen, you’ve been on dates, you even had a boyfriend for a few pretty serious months in high school—but you haven’t kissed anyone since you got into Stanford.

And you’ve never kissed a _girl_.

Somehow, the thought of it settles low and hot in your stomach. You glance around, self-conscious about people being able to see it, but no one seems to notice. If anything, the girls are taking the idea of spin the bottle up very lightly—like it’s just a bit of a joke, like it can be fun.

Okay.

That’s something you can work with.

Maybe it _will _be fun.

It’s not your turn until the fifth or sixth time. When you spin, the bottle lands perfectly on Lizzy, who is already sitting right next to you.

She smiles, then leans over and kisses you—catching you off guard before you’ve got time to get nervous about it.

It’s soft and kind of good, and there’s this bold rush through your body when Lizzy doesn’t pull back immediately, so you kiss her back a little harder, swipe your tongue against hers for a second, before breaking apart again.

Lizzy grins, then says, “Wow, Pressi—you’re good.”

And _that _is something else.

You’re blushing hard—loving the way your body heats up, loving the way the rest of the team is looking at you, arched eyebrows and all.

You shrug, and grin, play it off like it’s nothing.

But it’s not.

It’s not nothing.

:::

You know who Tobin Heath is, obviously.

You’ve heard the way people talk about her, about how talented she is, how fast, how technical with the ball. There’s this weird mix between admiration and jealousy from the rest of your teammates whenever her name comes up in conversation.

Still, it knocks you a little off guard to actually watch her play.

She’s not just good—she’s _next level _good. She’s club soccer good. USWNT good.

When she shakes your hand after the first time you play against each other, she says, “Good game,” which is something that everybody says. It doesn’t really affect you. But then, when you’re pulling your hand back, she adds, “Really. You were great.”

For some reason, that makes you feel a little unsteady. She’s got a calm sort of confidence about her and you’re thinking you can’t ever measure up to that—can’t ever be this relaxed and laid back when meeting someone for the first time. Especially not someone who is so… who looks so…

She’s grinning at you in a way that makes your skin feel tight all over. You try to force a bit more strength into your posture. “Thanks. You’re really good, too.”

Tobin’s smile softens for a moment.

And then, both of you get swept up in the rest of the post-game chaos again.

The whole way home it echoes in your head, though—her low voice, and the way she said _you were great_, like she really meant it. 

:::

There’s a moment, during that one championship game, right after your goal in the 89th minute gets called offside, when you catch her looking at you. There’s a combination of frustration and pride in her eyes that thrills through your body. She’s looking at you like she can’t look anywhere else. She’s looking at you like you look at other girls sometimes—it snatches all the air from your lungs, makes you feel powerful and confident. Makes you feel like you’re doing something really good, despite the fact that you just lost the game.

:::

Nothing works out like you wanted it to, and out of nowhere, you find yourself on a plane to Sweden.

It’s different—the new, deep sort of cold in the air every time you breathe in and out; the brightness of the light in summer; the way the vowels twist and turn in your mouth as you struggle to wrap your tongue around the language. 

What’s different, too, is that it feels like no one is watching.

For years, people have wanted you to play for them. For years, you had to show that you were good enough—good enough to compete with the boys, to win championships, to be a starter, to make the league, again, again, again. And now, you’re on the other side of the world and there’s no one to be good for anymore. Nobody to pay attention to the accuracy of your passes, to how many shots you manage to land in the back of the net.

Nobody, but you.

The beginning of that season is messy. You’re still upset and stressed out about the league folding, but you tell yourself that this is how things go, that you _wanted _this, and that you’ve got it, in a way—even if it’s not like you imagined it.

You have no choice but to play.

So you sprint and sweat and train, and you learn to read the game better, to think out better plays, to make a match into what you want it to be, to laugh when you score, to raise your arms, to feel proud, to feel good about yourself—

You end the year as the second-highest scorer in the Swedish top division league with 17 goals—

And _this _is what you forgot; how it feels to do things for yourself.

:::

You don’t really fall in love with anybody when you’re there. Dating is the last thing on your mind right now. Besides, you don’t really fall in love that easily, anyway.

What you do have, for a while, is Evan.

:::

He’s tall and very Swedish, which means that it takes you way too long to figure out that he’s into you, because he isn’t very open about his feelings. You meet because he is one of the physiotherapists for the team. He’s got a nice smile and his English is really good—and he’s interested in you. He’s always asking you about California, about growing up, about your dogs, about soccer.

You like him a lot.

You’re not in love with him, not even close, but you like him a lot. You like spending time with him and you like sleeping with him, too—and it’s mostly a sort of convenient friends with benefits situation, but that is all you need for now.

When you get your first call up for USWNT camp and it is beginning to look like you might play for the league after all, the whole thing between you simmers out easily.

But you do learn something important about yourself.

:::

(He says it softly, the first time, nothing but a whisper in the crook of your neck—through the heat and the sweat and the stress relief. _God, that’s good—you’re being so good. _You come harder than you’ve ever come before.)

:::

“Teach me how to curve it like that?”

You whip around, feeling caught.

Tobin Heath is standing a few feet away, soccer ball at her feet. It’s really late already, way past training hours, and you don’t think you’re even supposed to be out on the pitch still, but you just wanted to—

Well—

Getting on the national team, it’s like some of the old stress is back. Despite the fact that everything is going well; despite the fact that you’re getting along with the other girls, and they all seem to really like you. You’ve still been feeling like you need to catch up, and so—

A hundred shots with each leg.

Some habits are hard to break.

Tobin smiles that confident, wide smile, taking just the slightest step closer. “Unless you’d rather practice alone.” She shrugs. “I mean, I can leave again if you want.”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “I’ll teach you.”

It’s one of your favorite ways to take the shot, the curving effect like this. You make her line up the balls, show her the angle, the way she needs to hit her foot just right. It takes a while, but then she gets it—first with left and then with right—and it’s…

It feels good.

You grin, feeling lighter than before. “Teach me how to nutmeg?”

Tobin laughs. “I’m not sure, Press. You really think you’re ready for that level of technicality? Nutmegging is really tricky, you know? I’m not convinced you’ve got—_ow_—” You push her arm hard and she rubs her bicep, pretending to be in pain. “Okay, okay. Whatever you want.”

You like her, you think.

She’s cool and funny—and she treats you like you’ve known each other for years. Technically, you _have_. But for the first time, you’re on the same side of the field.

It feels good.

It’s familiar. It’s easy.

You think that, on some level, she already understands you. She wouldn’t be out here shooting on goal after practice, if she didn’t.

Of course, she tries to nutmeg you immediately—smug smile and quick feet—but you push her back and manage to hold her off, tangling your legs with hers, keeping up the fight, until you’re both falling to the ground, laughing.

Yeah, you’re pretty sure you like her.

:::

It doesn’t bother you that she has a girlfriend. You don’t see each other often enough to get super close and personal with one another. You don’t actually know that much about her life, and it wouldn’t be any of your business, anyway.

You’re here to play soccer; to score goals, to win matches, to be a good friend, a good teammate.

If Tobin Heath happens to be into girls, that’s great, but completely irrelevant to your own life, no matter what you might accidentally catch yourself thinking about once in a while. 

One time, when you’re out with the team after winning a game, she asks you if you’re seeing someone, and you tell her no.

It looks like her face gets a little bit red, but the light in the bar is low, so it’s probably you’re your imagination.

She wouldn’t be blushing.

She has a girlfriend, anyway.

At first, it doesn’t bother you—and then out of nowhere, it _does. _

:::

The first time it happens, you’re so exhausted that you can blame it on sleep deprivation. Camp for the 2015 World Cup is _intense_—long days of highly competitive practice matches, endless technical drills, way too much powerlifting at the gym, and complicated strategy sessions in the evening. You’re feeling more stressed than you should; not sleeping much, feeling the pressure of being on the team to a strange physical degree. 

The first time it happens, you’re so freaked out that you wake up almost instantly when you realize what’s happening.

For the most part, everything is sensory; hands sliding hotly over your body, rolling your nipples; your legs being pushed open; fingers fucking into you. Your body is arching and aching and the whole dream is hot flashes of things you want, of things you like; lips against your neck; hands sliding down from your back to your ass; the wet way you push yourself against someone’s mouth—

And then—

Out of nowhere, it’s Tobin’s hands and Tobin’s eyes and Tobin’s mouth, grinning at you from between your legs, saying, _you’re so hot, _saying, _you like that, Chris?_

You wake up with a start; sweaty and trembling. You’re wet between your thighs and you’re so, _so _embarrassed that you can barely breathe.

In the darkness of the hotel room, you force yourself to breathe slower, to be as quiet as you can.

You push every single thought about your dream out of your head—try to think of something else, of _anything _else.

You can’t really look at her during breakfast the next morning.

Unfortunately, after that, it becomes a pretty regular thing.

You dream of Tobin kissing you; of the way her body would feel against yours; the sounds she would make; the way she would taste. You dream about being on your back, about being on top, about being on your hands and knees, about being on the floor, about being against the wall. You dream about showers and locker rooms and the middle of soccer pitches. You dream about her saying, _fuck, you’re so beautiful, _her saying, _I love it when you do that, _her saying, _such a good girl._

(You dream that specific thing over and over and over, in all sorts of variations; _that’s it baby, so good, so perfect, spread your legs a little wider for me, is this what you like, I want you to come for me, you’re being so good_)

No one ever notices anything.

No one knows what’s going on inside your mind. You become really good at not letting any of this rule your thoughts during the day; you play soccer, you win games, you meditate, you do yoga, you laugh at Tobin’s jokes, you’re friends—and it works out the way it’s supposed to.

No one knows that sometimes you wake up sighing her name.

As long as it stays like this, you tell yourself, you’re fine. As long as you don’t develop any sort of real feelings, you’re fine.

::: 

Tobin breaks up with Shirley.

The frequency of the dreams increases.

:::

When you miss your penalty kick at the Olympics, you get the worst panic attack of your entire life.

:::

There’s pressure on your ears. You feel like you’re choking, like there’s no oxygen going to your brain, like you’re going to stop breathing any second, here, out in the hallway of your hotel room—

_You messed it up._

There’s an ice-cold pain slicing into your chest; your throat is closing off and your body seems to shift into lockdown; muscles tense and shaking, tears streaming down your face, wrists so fucking painful—

_You really fucked it up. _

“Chris.”

The goal was right there.

All you had to was kick the ball in—same as always.

Sill picture it flying over, the flash of it in your mind, and now you’re _out_, you’re team is out, and it’s all, it’s all your—

“_Christen—_”

Someone is pushing your hands way from your face, stepping in front of you, and you—

You can’t fucking breathe—

“Hey—” Tobin is saying. “Look at me. Come on, Chris—_look_—” She pushes your chin up, eyes wide with worry. “I’m right here. I’m right here—”

Your whole body spasms with panic.

“Talk to me,” Tobin says.

You can’t—

Can’t breathe—

“Tell me what color shoes I’m wearing,” she says. “Open your eyes. What color is this?”

Can’t focus—

_Can’t breathe_.

“Come on,” she says. “Chris, what color?”

Your throat contracts—still no air going in or out. She holds onto your sweaty hands, steps back so you can glance at the floor.

“Blue,” you choke out.

“Good,” she says. “That’s good—how about my shorts?”

You inhale so sharply that it hurts, sting of it slicing through the center of your chest. “White—with… with blue.”

Tobin brushes her fingers over your cheek. “That’s right. You’re doing so great. How many hotel room doors can you see? Will you count them for me?”

“Don’t—don’t know—”

“Come on,” she says. “You’ve got this. Count them for me. I know you can do that.”

Your chest is heaving up and down, but she’s asking you a question—she’s asking you to do something, just one thing, and you’ve always been—

All you need to do is count.

You force your eyes up. One—two—three—

“Four,” you say.

“What’s that?” Tobin says.

“Four doors.”

“Good.” She takes the slightest step back. “You’re doing so great. I’m going to give you some water okay? All you need to do is take a few sips. Think you can do that for me?”

She pushes a water bottle in your hands. Your fingers are shaking. Your whole body is just—

“It’ll help,” she says. “I promise.”

You bring the bottle up to your mouth, try to swallow.

You take another sip, swallow again—

And then—

Just like that—

It’s like your chest begins to open up.

“See…” Tobin says. “It slows your breathing.” She’s close to you. “I’m going to stay right here with you, okay? I’ve got you, Chris.”

You’re still crying. Can feel the sting of it behind your eyes, feel the wet streaks of it down your face, but the pressure on your chest begins to ease it little bit. You take another sip of water, feel the cool of it going through you.

“It…” you breathe out. “It hurts.”

Tobin’s whole face grimaces, like it hurts her, too.

“I know…” she says.

She brings her hand up to your cheek, wipes some of the tears away.

You fist your fingers in the front of her shirt, desperate to have something to hold on to. And then, like that, everything comes rushing out of you in choked off half-sentences. “We—we were so close… and I never—that penalty… and now we’re going home and it’s—all my fault.”

Tobin’s arms wrap around you, and then you’re crying into her shoulder, panic fading harshly into _hurt_ all at once. You so tired that it feels like you’re going to collapse.

She’s stroking her fingers through your hair. She’s breathing against your cheek, pulling you closer. She’s whispering into your skin, saying, “It’s not your fault”, saying, “I’m here, Chris” saying, “It’s going to be okay.”

You let her hold you until you can’t stand anymore.

She lets you sleep in her bed, holds you close when you wake up and begin to cry again.

:::

The Olympics fuck you up.

It takes a while for you to feel like soccer is fun again.

:::

Tobin gets sick during training camp. She tries to pretend she’s feeling fine, but you can tell that she’s not. You skip the whole day of training and pull her into bed. She gets fever dreams, looks so pale and weak, keeps shivering and shaking, even when you wrap the blankets and both of your arms around her to try and keep her warm.

At some point during the day, you go downstairs to grab her some food, and when you come back, you find her asleep on the bed wearing your favorite pair of sweatpants.

The sight makes you blush so much that you’re happy she’s asleep.

God.

You were not supposed to let this happen.

The rule was: no feelings.

It’s starting to look like you’re already past that point.

:::

“What?”

You don’t realize you are staring, until Tobin gives you a slightly confused look. “Am I wearing it inside out or something?”

“Oh, no, no—you’re fine,” you rush to say, feeling very caught.

Tobin gives you a smile, and you’re praying that she doesn’t realize that you were full on checking her out as she was changing in and out of her jersey; the lines of her abs, the way her skin is always so tan and glowing, the way your mind is already imagining what it would be like to run your hands up—

“Chris, stop worrying.” Tobin’s voice is light. “I told you I’ve been feeling so much better. I’m really not sick anymore. No fever. Nothing.”

“I wasn’t—”

You want to say you weren’t looking at her because you were _worried_. You know she’s fully recovered from the cold she has two weeks ago.

You want to say you were thinking about what it would be like to run your hands over her stomach, to touch her all over, to use your mouth to make her—

You can’t.

It’ll give her a heart attack, and you’re friends, and you just can’t. Not before you have to play a game. Not ever, actually.

Tobin’s still grinning at you. “Where’s your head at, Chris?”

You’re pretty sure you’re blushing, when you say, “Nothing. Just soccer. What else?”

:::

She’s been doing this thing lately.

You don’t think she even fully realizes it, but _you _do, and each time you become more and more distracted by it. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing; whether you’re in practice together, or just having dinner, or hanging out with the rest of the team—no matter what, she’s always somehow touching you.

Her hand against your back; her leg against your leg; her fingers reaching over to brush your hair back behind your ear; her foot against yours under the table.

It’s driving you fucking insane.

She’s not even doing it on purpose, you think. She’s just doing it, without thinking about it.

Which makes it worse, because you’re—

You’ve been thinking about it _a lot_. You’ve been trying to show her. You’ve been trying to get her to kiss you for, like, _weeks _already, and she barely even seems to recognize anything you say as flirting, and it’s just—

You’re losing your mind.

:::

“Chris.”

You’re talking to Kelley and Morgan, glass of champagne in your hand, leaning back against the bar of the hotel restaurant.

“_Chris_.”

You turn, trying to look annoyed at her for interrupting you, but unable to stop your smile when you see how happy and loose she looks.

“What?” you say, with a little bit of a grin.

Tobin smiles, leans in closer, and then says, a little low, “They’ve got a rooftop swimming pool here.”

At that, you arch your eyebrow at her. “Oh?”

“Let’s go check it out.” Tobin’s eyes are shining with excitement. “Let’s sneak away for a second.”

You don’t want to smile, but _damn it_.

“Just you and me?” you say, instead of agreeing right away. “Just us?”

Tobin blushes just the slightest bit. “Uh—yeah.”

“What about celebratory drinks?” you press on, and you love the way she seems to think a little harder about how to convince you.

(You want her to try a little harder, despite the fact that you’ll do anything she asks; you want to see her work for it a little bit.)

(You want her so much that it hurts.)

Tobin looks around, bites down on her lip, and then she smirks. “Okay, I’ve got an idea,” she says, grabbing your hand, and interlacing your fingers with hers.

She pulls you after her through the bar, and then, just like that, she takes a bottle of champagne from one of the ice buckets and hurries her way towards the elevators.

You laugh, and Tobin says, “Celebratory drinks taken care of. Let’s go.”

There’s no one at the pool. The night is hot and dark around you and the water looks really blue and inviting. Both of you are wearing shorts and sweaters, and maybe—if you’re brave enough—you’ll dare her to go swimming with you later. But for now, this will do; sitting on the edge of the swimming pool, with your legs dangling in the water, bottle of champagne between you.

“Do you want to pop it?” Tobin says.

You shake your head. “You do it.”

“Okay.” She smiles. “I’m going to hand it to you, though, once it’s popped. You scored a goal so you get the first taste.”

You wish you didn’t think she was so freaking charming, because she’s honestly not even doing anything special, but somehow you do; somehow, you’re so into her that everything she says makes your heart race, that every smile she gives you makes you want to kiss her.

“Drinking straight from the bottle by an empty swimming pool in the middle of the night,” you say with a grin. “It’s like I’m in high school all over again.”

Tobin winks, then says, “Bet you were one of the cool kids in high school.”

You laugh. “I really wasn’t.”

“Hm,” she says. “Could’ve fooled me.”

And _god_—

The fluttery feeling in your stomach is only getting worse. Trying to hide how much it’s making you flustered, you gesture at the bottle. “Just go for it.”

“Okay.”

She gives you one more smile, and then pops the cork, laughing when it flies through the air and hits the opposite side of the swimming pool—and then, as the pressure gets released from the bottle, she’s saying, “Quick—open your mouth” and you’re already doing it, allowing her to tip the bottle and let you drink.

Tobin laughs and accidentally angles it slightly too far, causing some of the champagne to spill over the corner of your mouth and drip down your throat as you swallow—

And then, she’s pulling the bottle back and stares at you, stares at your mouth and at your throat, and you lick the taste off your bottom lip, before saying, with a bit of a teasing smile, “It’s good. You should try.”

Tobin blinks hard. “Yeah—yeah, okay.”

She takes a gulp from the bottle way too quickly, and then she’s coughing, and you’re laughing, patting her on the back as you say, “Oh yeah, this is just like high school.”

She pushes her leg against yours, trying to get her breath back. When she does, she takes a long, slow inhale, putting the bottle down on the tiles next of her. Somehow, it feels like she’s closer when she turns back to you and says, “You know, sometimes, I wish I already knew you in school.”

“Yeah?”

Tobin nods. “Yeah—I think I would have liked you a lot.”

Your breath hitches, just a little bit, even though it’s not—

She’s not saying that she—

“I was really lame in school,” you say, looking away from her eyes and down. “All I cared about was playing soccer and getting good grades.”

Tobin draws circles with her foot in the water, then says, with a bit of a smirk, “Of course.”

You feel your heart speed up. “What?”

She turns to look at you. Her eyes are dark and teasing when she says, “Could’ve known you were a bit of a good girl.”

Your mouth parts.

You can feel the rush of it through your whole body—

And Tobin is just—

She is looking at you, and smiling at you, and she just said it, just like that, in that low and raspy voice, and you weren’t prepared at all, weren’t ready for how much that would—

You lean over and kiss her.

She gasps a little at the sudden contact. Her mouth is soft, lips tasting vaguely of champagne, unmoving with the shock of it. For so long, you’ve imagined what it would feel like to kiss her, and suddenly it’s happening, and she’s frozen.

You pull back, thinking you made a mistake, thinking that you might have done the dumbest thing of your entire life—

But then her hand is sliding up your neck and she’s already closing the space between you again, and her mouth is back on yours, and now you’re _kissing_. For real—hot and soft, just the slightest bit desperate. 

Tobin swipes her tongue against your bottom lip and you make a noise at the feeling of it; parting your mouth to let her in, to let her get closer; your hands on her shirt and your whole body heating up—

And you’ve been waiting, and waiting, and—

She pulls back to breathe for a second, whispers, “Wow.”

And you can’t stop yourself. “Go out with me some time.”

It’s close against her lips, your voice hoarse.

Tobin says, “What?”

“Go out with me some time.”

Tobin swallows visibly, “Like—on a…”

“Yes.” You don’t want to wait anymore. “On a date.”

She’s still so close. You can see the glimmer in her eyes, can feel the tremble in her body, can tell that her whole body lights up, just like that, like winning a soccer match, but better, way better when she says, “Okay. I’d love that.”

:::

You want to look pretty for her.

It’s been a while since you went on a real first date with someone, and you want to do it _right_; because it’s important to you, because it’s Tobin, because you’re pretty sure your feelings for her are already way past first date stage—and that’s scary but also good.

You want to look pretty; so, you straighten your hair and you buy this flowy, long skirt that fits beautifully; you wear a top that shows off your midriff, match it with your jacket to pull off a sort of effortless chic vibe; you apply make-up that accentuates your eyes and your lips—and you hope she notices everything.

It seems like she does.

The look she gives you when you walk towards her makes you feel hot all over.

You want to kiss her right away.

She sounds breathless when she greets you—and it causes a sort of wild thrill down your spine; to know that you can make her sound like that; to feel like she really _does _think you’re someone worth going out with.

For the next hour or so, you drink wine and you talk, and you’re so flirty with her—complete abandon, finally going directly for the thing you want because it seems like it’s right within your reach, like it’s yours for the taking. You kiss her in the middle of the bar and she makes this noise at the back of her throat that completely unsettles you.

All you want is to make her do that again, to see her lose control a little bit— 

So, even though you’ve never done anything like this before, even though you’ve never had sex with a girl, even though it’s a first date and you wish you could will your body to take it a bit slower, you find yourself getting wet with the way she’s kissing you, outside of the bar, after you confessed just how much you like her, and she’s moaning softly into your mouth, pushing her fingers through your hair—

You pant out, “Take me home with you.”

She licks at her bottom lip, eyes all dark and turned on. Still, she hesitates just the slightest bit, clearly trying to be chivalrous. “Are you—are you sure?”

You kiss her lips again, feeling hot and needy, and not really caring if she can tell. “I want you. So much.”

Her whole body shudders, and then she’s pulling on your hand, and it’s—

It’s so fast so soon.

It’s exactly what you want.

:::

She’s kissing down your neck, arms around your waist, as she pushes you back against her bedroom wall, and suddenly you’re impossibly, annoyingly nervous.

“Just…” you say, hands falling still against her hips. “If I’m bad or anything, just, just let me know and I’ll… I’ll stop. And then you can tell me how to really do it, okay? Because—I want it to be good for you and I know it’s stupid that I’ve never—”

Tobin pulls back, creating more space between your bodies. Her eyes are suddenly a little worried. “Chris, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” You sound very out of breath. “I’m just—I don’t want to disappoint you and I know I’m really inexperienced with women, and you’ve… well, you’ve obviously—_you know. _So… so you need to tell me when I’m doing anything wrong, so I can correct—”

“Hey…” she says again. “Look at me.” 

You swallow hard, then force yourself to meet her eyes.

Tobin strokes her fingers over your cheek. “That’s not—Chris, it doesn’t work like that,” she says softly.

“Oh—” You bite down hard on your bottom lip. “See, I’m already getting it—”

“No,” Tobin says. “No, Chris, I mean—it doesn’t work like that because you could never do anything _wrong_.” She presses the softest of kisses against your lips, and then adds, with a hitch of hesitation, “I’m nervous, too.” 

You take a shaky breath. “You are?”

She nods. “Yeah, of course. You’re not just anyone.” Her eyes soften. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me…”

That gives a proud sort of rush. “Yeah?”

Tobin smiles a little bit. She pulls on your hand, brings it right up to her chest. “Feel this. Feel how fast my heart is racing.”

You exhale hard, feeling the rapid _thud-thud-thud _against your fingers.

Tobin kisses your jaw. “I’m so into you… I’ve never been this into anybody…”

And that—well, that changes things.

There’s a slow rush of confidence through your body at that confession. You take a deep breath. “I just want to make you feel so good,” you whisper. “That’s, like, all I want.”

Tobin makes a sound. “God…” She kisses you, causing shivers to run down the length of your spine. “You _are_,” she says. “Chris—you’ve got no idea. You’re—”

Suddenly, you’re brave.

You drop your hand from where it was resting against her collarbone, and then slide it up her shirt, touching her over her bra.

Tobin nearly stumbles. “Fuck—”

“Oh, sorry,” you say with a grin, not sorry at all. “Just wanted to feel your heartbeat a little closer…”

You palm at her breast with just a little bit more pressure, and Tobin groans even louder. “Oh my god,” she says. “That’s—that’s—”

Suddenly, you don’t want to wait anymore.

You undress each other quickly—all push and pull and clothes being thrown onto the floor, desperate kissing; Tobin’s hands on your hips, her eyes dragging up and down over your body; her gaze hungrier than you’ve ever seen it—and some of it is exactly like you imagined it, and some of it is better.

She positions herself on top of you on the bed, naked and warm against you, settling right between your legs. 

It feels so good that you’re not sure you’re going to last very long.

She kisses you into the mattress until your whole body feels tight with need, until you’re absolutely desperate to get her to do something _else _already.

With a bit of a push, you begin kissing down her neck, sucking and biting at her skin—loving the way she moans and seems to lose a little bit control over her body every time your teeth scrape over her skin; hips rocking down, legs spreading wider over your thigh.

Your breath is hot against her nipple, and then, because you really can’t hold back anymore, you close your mouth around it and suck.

Tobin’s hand fists hard in your hair. “_Fuck_,” she swears. “That’s—that’s good.”

It charges through your whole body; scorching hot between your legs. Your teeth drag over Tobin’s nipple and she swears even louder. “God, Chris—_so good_.”

You can’t suppress a moan, tipping your head back at the rush of pleasure. You only realize you’re rocking your hips up insistently, when Tobin’s eyes fly open and she’s staring down at you like something is suddenly clicking.

Her voice is thick when she says lowly, “You like that?”

You’re too overwhelmed by the moment to admit it, not brave enough to say it out loud, to say _yes_, you like that a whole fucking lot.

So, instead, you bite down on your bottom lip, forcing your gaze up to meet hers. “Do I like what?”

Tobin swallows. “When I tell you that you’re good…”

It’s somehow the hottest thing anyone has ever said to you, and you nearly choke at the words, your body too responsive to play it off as nothing.

_Fuck._

You’re wet and slick against Tobin’s thigh, feeling so turned on and so embarrassed at the same time. You _hate _that this affects you so much, that she’s able to see right through you, figure you out just like that.

You struggle a little bit. “I—” Your voice is hoarse. “It’s just…”

But Tobin _knows_.

Of course, she knows.

Her eyes have gone all dark and she’s leaning forward, brushing her hand over your cheek, and then she tips your chin up with her fingers and whispers against your lips, “Chris, you’re being _so _good. You’ve got no idea. I love what you’re doing to me, how you’re touching me. Can you tell? Can you feel how good it is for me?”

You shudder. “_Tobin_…”

She kisses you, her tongue slipping against yours, her fingers tightening in your hair. Then, she breathes out, “You’re so hot, Chris… Hottest girl I’ve ever slept with.”

You want to scream.

Any other time—with anyone else—it might have been a turn-off; to be described so objectively, on looks alone… But with Tobin—

You know how she feels about you.

You know she doesn’t _just _think you’re hot—

She even told you earlier tonight; all nervous and cute and soft, how much she likes you, how much you mean to her.

But the fact that she _does _think you’re hot, that she’s all confidence right now, that she thinks you’re the _hottest girl she’s ever slept with_, that she’s naked and on top of you, that she’s got her hands tugging on your hair, that she’s telling you exactly what you’re doing to her, how _good _you’re being—

You think you could come from this alone.

You want more of it.

With a rush of confidence, you push against her sternum, push her until she’s getting the hint and rolling onto her back.

“Want to make you feel even better,” you whisper, close enough to her ear that it makes her shiver. “Want you to tell me—to tell me how.”

Her mouth parts and she’s breathing kind of uneven, and then she says, “Kiss me.”

You do.

You push your body closer against hers and kiss her hard, sliding one of your hands up over her stomach to touch her boob at the same time. She moans a little into your mouth, arches her back. You roll her nipple between your fingers, the way you like it yourself, and Tobin actually kind of chokes. “_Yes_,” she says. “Just like that.”

You kiss down her neck, lick at her pulse, let her tangle her fingers in your hair. “What else?” you say against her collarbone.

“Use—” Tobin’s breathing stutters. “Use your mouth, please.”

You lean back just a little bit; she’s looking beautiful, her lips all swollen, her skin so smooth, her muscles flexing under her fingers. You know what she means—you know she wants you to suck on her nipple, like you were doing before, but still, you’re feeling bold enough to arch your eyebrow at her, and say, “Use my mouth _where_?”

Tobin’s eyes go wide, and you grin.

You watch her take a sharp breath, watch her close her eyes, as she says, “My… my boobs.”

“Okay,” you say, shifting a little bit closer. “Guess I’ll have to wait for what I really want.”

Tobin’s eyes shoot open again. “_Fuck, _Chris…”

You’re already kissing your way down her chest, licking at her breasts, circling her nipple with the tip of your tongue. She groans with your teeth make contact with it, and then she’s saying, “Yes—that’s so good.”

Again, it spikes hot between your legs.

You put your hand on Tobin’s thigh, sliding your fingers over the inside of her leg slowly, still kissing her nipple.

She sighs hard, opens her legs wider for you.

You don’t really know what you’re doing, and for a moment, some of the nerves are back, but you want to be brave, you want to be good, and Tobin’s already saying, “Please…”

And so you slide your fingers up, touching her for real.

She’s so wet against your hand that it makes you moan.

She swears. “Fuck…” And then she mumbles, “Go slow—go… I’m already so worked up, you need… you need to be slow.”

You nod, pressing kisses into her skin.

“Like this?” you say, then, sliding the tips of your fingers through her, experimentally, watching what it does to her face, feeling the way she shudders when you brush over her clit.

“Yes,” Tobin says. “That’s it. Feels… feels amazing.”

She moans loader when you add just the slightest bit of pressure, drawing circles. “Tell me more,” you say. “Tobin, tell me what you want.”

There’s an edge of desperation to your voice, and she must pick it up, because suddenly she seems to really get what you are asking for. She slides her fingers through your hair and says, “Want your fingers inside me, two—slowly.”

You do what she says, your whole body going tight with the way her face changes as you press inside of her.

“Yes…” Tobin says. “God, that’s good. Move them slowly.”

You slide in and out of her, trying to see what she likes, and then, when she bucks her hips just a little bit more, you curl your fingers instead of sliding them out, and Tobin _moans_.

“_Fuck_—_fuck…_” She pushes her hips up way harder. “Yeah—like that. Go faster.”

You do as she says, feeling the rush of pride through your whole body when she arches her back, gets louder. You increase your rhythm even more, and then—

God, you’ve been dreaming about this.

Without slowing down the push and pull of your fingers, you manage to move down between her legs, and then, you put your mouth on her.

Tobin clenches hard around your fingers. “Oh my god, oh my god…”

She’s wet against your mouth—and _fuck_, it might be the first time you’re ever doing this, but it’s so, so good… The way she’s trembling, the way she’s pushing herself harder against your tongue, the way she responds when you change rhythms.

You move your fingers faster, and Tobin chokes out, “That’s it—_that’s_… God, how are you doing that?” You moan against her, and it only seems to spur her on. “So good, Chris—you’re making me feel so good…” She slides her fingers through your hair, and then, she breathes out, almost like a whisper, “You know just how to fuck me, don’t you?”

You whimper, and Tobin comes.

You can feel it in the way she pulses tight and wet around your fingers, can hear it the way she’s saying _Christen Christen_, can taste it against your tongue.

When you slowly slide your fingers out of her, she gestures you to move closer, to lie on top of her, and then, she cups your face and kisses you.

She can taste herself on your mouth—and the thought makes your whole body tense.

“God,” she whispers against your lips. “That was unbelievable…”

You feel shy suddenly. “Yeah?”

She smiles, kisses your jaw, your forehead. “You’re so amazing. That was—I’ve never come that hard…” You whimper a little against her mouth, and Tobin adds, “I loved that so much.” She runs her fingers down your back, making you shiver a little bit. “Kind of want to show you just how much…”

You try to suppress a shiver. “What are you waiting for?” 

Her smile turns sexy, and then she’s rolling you over, pushing you down into the mattress.

She kisses praise into your skin, makes you come in minutes.

:::

It becomes a little bit of a thing.

Of course, there is so much to discover about each other—so many ways to have sex, things to try out together. You’re not even sure where you are yet in terms of dating; it seems serious, it feels serious, but you haven’t really had _that _conversation yet. You just know that you want to be with her pretty much all the time. You want to take her out on dates, take showers together, watch her soccer games, make her breakfast in the morning. Want to play around with this hot new thing between you—

With the fact that Tobin knows exactly how to get you from from 0 to 100 in _seconds_, whenever she wants to, just with a few words.

You didn’t know it was this much of a turn on for you, but _fuck_—

Now that you know, you might as well make it work to the best of your advantage.

:::

It’s _really _risky.

You should really not be having sex in the restaurant bathroom when your whole team is out there having dinner together, and yet—

Tobin’s mouth is hot on your neck, and she’s pushing your legs wider apart with her knee and sliding her hands to your ass—

“Tobin, we should—” Your sentence cuts off when she pulls your leg up, slides her fingers under the hem of your dress. “—we can’t…” 

Her tongue slides over your neck, up to your ear. “Do you want me to stop?”

You moan. 

She kisses you again, running her fingers slowly up the inside of her leg. You’re already pulling on her shirt, trying to get it off, but not being able to with all the buttons. After a few struggled attempts, you decide to leave the shirt for what it is and reach for her pants. You’re pulling the zipper down, just as her fingers inch higher and brush against your panties.

You let out a noise at the sudden contact, and Tobin grins. “You’re being a little loud, Chris…” She pulls teasingly on the fabric, can already feel how wet you are. “If you want me to touch you, you’re going to need to be quiet…”

Your breath hitches.

“Think you can go that for me?” Tobin says.

Fuck.

You can feel your throat go a little dry, but then, you smile, decide to push it a little bit. “I don’t know, maybe you should make me.”

Tobin’s eyes go dark.

You pull at her pants, arching your eyebrow with intention.

“Oh, is that what you want?” Tobin says, and the way it’s kind of cocky and arrogant makes your body shudder. She leans in close. “Right here in a public bathroom, Chris? I thought you were a good girl.”

_Fuck._

You’re breathing hard. Can feel the heat all over your skin, the way it’s beginning to set you on fire from the inside out. You know Tobin can feel it, too; can feel exactly what is happening to you, how responsive you are to that; how much you love it when she pushes it.

She looks at you, letting the moment build even more, until you’re hooking your fingers through the belt loops of her jeans, until you’re beginning to tremble with anticipation. Until you whisper “Please…” against her lips, and then, strokes her hand through your hair and lets you pull her jeans down.

You drop down to your knees.

And you can _see _what it does to her; how her cocky act drops and she’s going soft and shy all over, getting breathless at the sight of you on your knees in front of her. And it’s this—the push and pull that works so well between you; how you’re both getting exactly what you want.

You go down on her to a steady stream of praise, and Tobin’s sighing with pleasure, and it’s making you feel so good. 

When she comes, she calls you _baby_—

And she’s never said it, not once before, and it makes your heart race and your mind spin, and she holds onto your hand, grasping your fingers tightly in her own, and then, after, she pulls you up and kisses you.

You think you’re falling a little bit in love with her.

She slides her hand up under your dress, and says, “You’re so beautiful, Chris.”

You breathe out, “Say that thing again.”

“What thing, baby?” she says, her fingers slipping up and inside you.

You go tight around her instantly. “_That_.”

Tobin smiles, whispers it in your ear until you’re coming.

:::

You won’t ever admit just how much, but you love it when she’s wearing your clothes—and she’s taken to doing it a lot lately, claims it’s because she has to miss you so often now that you play in Utah and she in Portland.

You think it’s just because she’s a little bit possessive.

At this point, you’re pretty sure she owns more #23 shorts than you do.

When she wears them to camp practice this one morning, the whole team makes fun of it. You can immediately tell what it’s about with the way Emily and Alex are up in Tobin’s space during breakfast, grinning at each other with every single joke. Tobin looks annoyed and flustered.

“What was that about?” you ask her, as you’re jogging up and down the pitch later. “With Emily and Alex.”

“Nothing—” Tobin’s face goes red. “They were just being annoying.”

“Oh yeah?” You can’t stop your smile. “What did they say?”

She tries to speed up, tries to get out of the conversation, but you manage to keep up with her easily. “Doesn’t matter, babe. Just stupid stuff.”

When you reach the line, you say, “Come on, tell me. You look flustered.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m running,” Tobin says.

You have to bite your lip, then decide to just go for it. “Is it because you’re wearing my shorts?”

Instantly, she sputters. “What—_no. _Of course not. Why… why would you—think that?” And then she adds, “You noticed I’m wearing your shorts?”

You want to kiss her—right here in front of everybody during practice. But you agreed you wouldn’t do that, so you just smile at her and wink. “I always notice when you wear my clothes.”

Tobin is blushing even harder when you take off running again.

Later, after the joke has gotten a little bit out of control and Tobin has become seriously pissed off, you find her on the pitch, angrily taking shots at the goal. You wrap your arms around her waist and feel her soften against you, as she tells you what’s bothering her—that she’s annoyed at her friends not taking it seriously when she is _so _serious about you.

You kiss her hard, tell her that you _like _that she’s possessive about you, and she smiles and kisses you back.

She wears your shorts again to practice the next day—and that drives you a little bit crazy, because she’s completely showing off now; showing off that you’re together.

It’s way more distracting than the day before.

“Are you going to kick it back or are you just going to keep staring at me?” Tobin grins when you get lost in thoughts for the third time during warm-up already. “We’re in public, baby.”

You flip her off and kick the ball back. “Wasn’t staring.”

She grins and blows you a kiss.

And then you hear yourself say, “Would you wear my number to one of my games?”

Tobin kicks the ball up, balances it on her feet. Her smile is teasing. “Would you want me to?” You don’t want to admit it, but Tobin can see it on your face because she adds, “Do you like the thought of that? That everyone could see exactly why I’m at that game. How proud I am of you.”

Your body heats up just the slightest bit. “You’re proud of me?”

She doesn’t break eye contact—and you’re in the middle of a practice session with your entire team, and still it’s like the moment only exists between you and her.

Tobin licks at her bottom lip, then says, “If you behave yourself during practice today, I’ll show you just how proud later.”

She grins at the way your whole body goes tense instantly.

_Damn it. _

“Fuck you,” you mumble.

Tobin grins even wider, and says. “You’ll have to be a good girl and wait for that.”

You exhale hard, then charge forward and take the ball away from her feet, taking it to the other side of the field, as far away from her as possible. 

You can barely focus for the rest of practice—and Tobin knows it.

:::

Living together means you _actually _share a closet.

It means you get to go home with her. That you get to kiss her even more, get to have breakfast together a lot, that you go out to buy glasses and cutlery and plates that both of you love, a couple of plants that neither of you properly looks after. It means that you have sex in the shower a lot, that you fall asleep against her shoulder as you watch reality tv, that you have small fights about mundane things like laundry and dishes and whether or not you’re mature enough to adopt a puppy. 

It also means you don’t ever need to worry about roommates or anything like that again.

Which—

Which means that you are currently naked in the middle of the living room, bent over the table top, shaking and shivering, while Tobin is trying to get you to beg her to fuck you harder.

“God…”

She pushes her fingers deeper inside of you, slow and teasing, her rhythm not even close to anything that usually makes you come. 

Her mouth is hot on your neck as she says, “That feel good, baby?” She presses her fingers down, rubbing them against your front wall, and your hips buck. “Or do you need more?”

She’s got her hand on the middle of your back, between your shoulder blades, and she pushes you down a bit harder.

You gasp.

Your hands are flat on the table, and you’re trying to keep breathing evenly, trying to keep it together, but you’re _so, so _wet and so painfully turned on and—

You’re open for her, and completely exposed, and she can do whatever she wants to you, has _all _of the control, and it’s making you—

Fuck, you’ve never felt _this _before in your entire life.

“Christen.”

When she says your name like that, it’s impossible not to whimper.

You can’t see her face. You can feel her body behind you, warm and smooth against your legs, against your ass—but you can’t see what she’s going to do next, and the anticipation is making you lose your mind.

“Fuck…” you breathe out. “Babe—I’m… You need to…”

“What, Chris?” She’s doing it on purpose. “What do you want?”

“_More_…” you whisper. “Please.”

It slips past your lips, and you didn’t think you were at the point of giving in already, but if she doesn’t speed up her rhythm right now, you’re going to scream.

Tobin kisses the back of your neck, fucks you just the slightest bit faster, but it’s still not nearly enough. She’s stroking her hand over your skin, up and down your back, over your ass. You’re shaking so hard that you’re afraid your legs are going to give out.

And then, she says, “Do you want the strap?”

Your hips snap forward against the table.

_Fuck._

You clench tight around Tobin’s fingers, and you’re unable to speak, but you know that she _feels _it—that she feels exactly what that’s doing to you, how her words rush through your whole body. You moan, and Tobin’s rhythm stutters for a moment, and she’s saying, “Okay—okay…” and it sounds absolutely breathless and desperate, and you really just need it _right now_. 

“_Yes_,” you choke out. “God—Tobin, yes—”

“Okay,” she says, her voice all hoarse. “You’ll get it, baby. Be patient.” You make a choked off sound that has Tobin stroking her hand over your ass, and low over your back, trying to settle you a little bit, as she adds, “Don’t move. Stay right here. No touching yourself.” She bends forward, her voice low against your ear, when she says, “Be good for a minute, yeah? Can you do that for me, Chris?”

Your throat closes off, but you nod. You force yourself to take a deep breath, to whisper, “Yes, _yes_—”

She kisses your shoulder. “Good girl.”

It makes you shudder even more.

She slides her fingers out of you and steps back, and your whole body shivers with the sudden cold. Your knuckles are white from the way you’re clenching your fists. The longer you wait, the shallower your breathing gets.

_Fuck_…

She’s taking forever.

But you stay still—like you were told.

You bite your lip until it hurts and you try to stop your thighs from trembling.

And then, you can hear her step back out from the bedroom. Your eyes shut closed, and she moves closer, you can feel it. You have to fight to keep yourself from moaning. She’s not even touching you yet, but the anticipation is killing you, and— 

You only get the briefest of warnings when her breath hits hot against your exposed center, and then she licks between your legs.

You scream her name, hands gripping onto the edge of the table. She licks at you in long, slow strokes, and your whole body is _throbbing_. You’re so sensitive that it’s almost too much. Your hips jolt against the table again—you’re going to have bruises in the morning.

But Tobin’s tongue is wet and right where you need it, and she knows exactly what you like, and you’re going to come.

If she licks at your clit one more time, you’re going to—

“_Fuck_,” you choke out. “_Baby_—”

You spasm with the force of your orgasm, dripping wetly down your thighs.

Tobin moans. “God, you’re so beautiful. So gorgeous, Chris. Love to see you like this, love to feel you like this—”

It makes you shake even more, and then you _are _begging, for real. “Please—Tobin, please—I need you inside, just… give me… please, _please._”

She stands, lining her hips up, sliding the strap against you, up and down, the pressure on your clit nearly making you come all over again. But then, with one hand on your back, she pushes inside, inch by inch, and you’re—

You lose all coherency.

You’re biting on your arm and shaking against her, and she fucks you, slow at first, and then faster, making you choke on a string of words that’s nothing but her name and _yes _and _fuck _and _just like that _and _I love you_.

Her hand finds your ponytail, and she _tugs_, fucking into you just a little bit harder. And then she’s saying, “God, you’re being so good for me. You’re taking me so well.”

The words give you a thrill like nothing else.

You go tight around her and she says, “That’s it, baby. Are you going to come for me again?” Her other hand curls over your hip, pulling you just the slightest bit away from the table, so she can find your clit and rub quick circles over it. “Fuck, you’re so wet. So sexy.” She pulls your body up a bit, kisses your neck. “Are you close, beautiful?” 

You can’t do anything but moan.

And then she says, almost like a whisper, “Can’t believe you’re really mine…”

It pushes you right over the edge.

:::

Later, when you’ve made it to the bed and you’re curled up against her, all worn out and sleepy, she says, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that?”

You smile into her shoulder, feel the warmth of it spread through your whole body. “I love you,” you whisper. “So, so much.”

She kisses you softly. “I love you too, Chris.”

You’re quiet for a second, and then you mumble, “You really mean that? The best thing?”

Tobin nods.

:::

You like to be good at things.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: 
> 
> As someone with a pretty strong praise kink, this was almost therapeutic to write lol. Let me know what you thought in the comments! 
> 
> Or come talk to me on tumblr: e-lec-tric-in-di-go
> 
> I’ll take prompts.


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